Lock Up
by BoundLight
Summary: Prison!AU. Dean Winchester is found guilty, and sent to spend the rest of his life in Folsom Prison. It's only there, outside the scope of his father's control, that he truly comes alive. Terrible summary, read it anyway. Rating may go up later. Dean/Cas
1. Chapter 1

I will admit for anyone interested in knowing these things that a lot of thought went into the jail of choice. Folsom was picked primarily because of its mention in the show; though considering the nature of Dean's crimes I almost placed this work of fiction in ADX Florence in Florence, Colorado. The reason Dean was not placed in maximum security, was because in maximum security you are in solitary confinement 22-23 hours a day (see: wiki, cause I'm not die-hard enough about this to find credible sources right now). It is very hard to write a fic when your character is in solitary confinement all day every day. So. He's not in maximum security, although Folsom was at one point a maximum security place. Also, for those interested, according to said wiki research, the _point_ of maximum security in general and ADX Florence specifically is to "transfer [prisoners] to a less-restrictive prison to serve out the remainder of their terms." So yes, we may have some characters who will come from there to Folsom. Anyway, as I said, a lot of research went into this fic, so I hope you like it.

As a matter of course I feel I should tell you that I've never been to prison, I've never known anyone who has gone to prison. All things that happen and events are written from what I've garnered from movies, TV shows, and my imagination. If I get some detail wrong, just assume I'm taking an artistic license. Please don't be ridiculously mean about it. I'm looking at a few of you as I say this, so consider yourself warned.

Also, just in case anyone is wondering, unless the state is Colorado, all cities and places are made up inside this little head of mine.

And, bonus points to whoever catches The Mentalist and X men reference. They are so very small… blink, and you'll miss it…

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><p>Dean had been sentenced to life in Folsom on his eighteenth birthday. It was the first and only birthday present he'd ever received.<p>

The court had been filled with a stony silence as the sentence was handed down by twelve jurors who could barely manage to look at him.

Dean supposed it was hard to look at what the press had dubbed, "Satan's Son."

He was being tried for twenty attempted murders, fifteen kidnappings, a bank robbery, identity fraud, credit fraud, impersonating all manner of officers and government officials, as well as half a dozen counts of grave desecration.

And that was just what they could prove. He was suspected for eleven other murders, but there had been no substantial evidence to link them to him. Before the trial had begun the police had attempted to make a deal with him; if he told them explicitly about everyone he'd ever killed they'd… well, that was the thing. They really had nothing to offer him. Nothing he wanted anyway.

In the end the officers had gone with the pity plea; the parents needed comfort, they needed to know what had happened to their babies. Dean was unmoved. His father told him what happened in situations like this. People were liars. Once Dean confessed, they could do whatever they wanted, they didn't have to come through, in fact it was almost a certainty that they wouldn't. It was true Dean was in this situation because of his father, but that didn't mean he loved the man any less, and he was nothing if not obedient. So Dean kept his mouth shut about the actual body count attributed to him. After all, he was sure even his lawyer would ditch him if he knew.

With his lack of cooperation, it was a miracle, his court appointed lawyer told him later, that he hadn't received the death penalty; it was because of his age he said. Or maybe his good looks. Or maybe it was because his father had all but forced him to do it. Trained him like an animal, encouraged him to kill.

Dean wanted to explain they'd only been trying to help. The men and women he'd killed had been monsters; he _knew_ they were, his dad had _proved _it. No one, not even his lawyer, had believed him, and ultimately the DA had convinced the jury that this was some ridiculous attempt to escape responsibility through a false insanity plea.

Dean didn't try to hard to fight this opinion – he didn't want to end up drugged in some padded room.

The thing was… Dean enjoyed prison. He'd been staying there during the five week trial, and while he knew he'd be moved to a different, more _secure_ location if, (_when_ his lawyer would occasionally slip), they lost the case, he knew the atmosphere would stay the same. He would finally be somewhere he could call home, as weird as that sounded. He'd have some place where he had a bed of his own, maybe even a window, and, if he was lucky, a friend. That was more than he'd ever had on the run with his dad. They'd stayed in a different motel every night, and he'd never been able to make any lasting connections with anyone his own age. All he'd had was his father, and for a time that had been all he'd wanted.

It was when his dad started sending him out on his own that he'd ran into problems. Instead of killing first, he'd tried to make friends, and to his shock, people had _liked_ him. For four memorable months he'd ran away from his dad, posing as a car mechanic named Kris Warren. He'd found a beautiful town in Battle Creek, Michigan and an even lovelier woman named Lisa Braeden, and for the first time in his life, he'd felt like he'd found his place in this world.

Then his dad had found him, and the town had all but crumbled beneath them. They'd killed almost a dozen people before they'd left, including Lisa and her young son Ben.

At the start of the trial, his lawyer, Erik Donaldson – a fat, balding man, who always smelled faintly of sweat – had tried to prepare him for what could (_would _Donaldson had to stop himself from saying) happen if they received a guilty verdict. He explained the death penalty and the appeals process they would have to go through. He also explained what life in prison would entail, and how the world would change for him if this happened; certain freedoms he would no longer have, and the different relationships he'd have to form with people. Dean didn't really understand the difference between life in prison and the death penalty, they both had the same end after all, but he humored Donaldson, feigning interest in their increasingly short meetings.

The trial was nothing like what he'd seen on Law and Order, and for that he was a little depressed. That had been the one highlight of those inane procedural cop shows. Rather than give dramatic speeches in chic suits, the lawyers paraded a series of witnesses and victims to the stand, some who starchy defended him, and some who condemned him to hell. Dean was happy to see some of the faces again, a girl named Cassie most especially. His lawyer cringed every time Dean grinned at the stand, and scolded him about 'intimidating' the witnesses. Dean didn't really understand how he could be perceived of doing anything of the sort, especially when the girls waved back.

A lot of the witnesses came through for Dean. Every time a witness told the jury Dean was sent by God to save mankind, Donaldson would nudge Dean's shoulder in excitement, but Dean knew it was a lost cause. He knew the moment they entered the courtroom that he was going to be found guilty. When the gavel fell for the last time it was a relief. Those chairs got rather uncomfortable after a while.

After the trial Dean was processed. It was awkward; especially the very… thorough… search for weapons, but Dean had dealt with much worse. After the cops had had their fun Dean was forced into a jumpsuit, shackled ankles to wrists, and lead outside to his transport; a large bus with a gate halfway down that separated the prisoners from the front. Dean was the only prisoner there, but it was clear no chances were being taken as three armed guards watched him from outside the gate, and one unarmed guard watched him from inside. Dean put on his most charming smile. "A little light today, eh?"

The guards glared.

Dean smiled and turned his back on them, giving the landscape his full attention.

* * *

><p>Folsom State Prison was nothing like what he was expecting. For one thing it was large and sprawling; more like a small city than a prison. For another, there was a baseball diamond. That's right, a fucking baseball diamond. One of the guards laughed. "That's for A block only little boy."<p>

Dean frowned curiously. "A block?" For half a second a small part of him wanted to ask, _a block of what?_

"Shut up, Jim." Another guard answered. He was the unarmed guard who sat with him on the inside of the gate. He was older than the others, and had a dark beard that was slowly turning grey. He turned to Dean. "I believe that if we treat our…_guests_ with respect they will grant us the same luxury, isn't that right?" The last bit was aimed at Dean. Dean felt a smile touch his face, the first honest one in a long while.

"Yeah, that's right."

"A block is minimum security; folks who've been convicted for _non_ violent crimes."

Dean nodded. "In other words, not where I'm going."

The guard grinned.

A few minutes later the bus pulled up outside of a chain link fence topped with barbed wire. It slowly slid open and the bus pushed inside. Outside the window Dean could see tons of inmates in the yard; most of them stopped what they were doing to watch the bus drive by.

The next time the bus stopped, the gate was opened and he was led down the four steps and out the sliding door; a new set of guards waited outside, dressed in Folsom Prison uniforms and carrying high powered rifles. They stopped him just outside the bus. Dean knew they would. This was like every clichéd prison movie ever.

There was only one guard who wasn't holding his weapon at the ready; instead it was slung over one shoulder, complimenting the cruel smile on his face. While he was roughly the same height as the guards he was standing with, the way he carried himself made him seem much taller. It was clear he was the man in charge.

He moved forward, stopping directly in front of Dean. He wasn't officially _in_ Dean's space, but Dean could tell the guard was trying to show his dominance. Dean did his best not to roll his eyes. The guard nodded to the others standing just behind Dean. "We'll take over from here." He grinned at Dean. His eyes flashed in the light and for a moment they reflected yellow.

Dean stiffened.

They weren't black, but that didn't change anything. A demon? Already? He knew they'd come for him but… His hands twitched, reaching for the gun he no longer carried. The one filled with rock salt.

"Welcome to Folsom Prison." The demon said. "I'm Captain Exley. I am your new master. I will tell you when you sleep, when you eat, when you walk and who you talk too, you get me? You obey me, and your time here _might_ be a little easier. You don't, and well…" he chuckled, "you'll get to see exactly _why_ they put me in charge of scum like you. Now move it."

Dean didn't move; he had already stopped listening. Demon's lie; they'll say whatever they want to trick you into believing them. It didn't matter what the bastard was saying.

The demon frowned, and two of the nameless guards moved forward and grabbed Dean's arms. They tried to move him forward, but Dean resisted, his eyes locked on Exley. "Christo." He said.

Exley flinched. "Move him inside. Now."

Dean smirked, and as the guards shoved him passed the Captain he leaned in as close as he could. "I know what you are, you yellow-eyed bitch."

Exley snarled, but Dean had already been moved away. A dark smile crossed Dean's face. The hunt had begun.

* * *

><p>He was processed again. The searched him for weapons again, as though he could have obtained one on his wonderful bus ride over. The whole process took longer than Dean had expected. He was stripped of the blue jumpsuit he'd arrived in and forced into an orange coverall all the maximum security prisoners wore. It made them easy to find if they tried to run away in the empty expanse surrounding the prison. His new attire had Folsom Prison stamped on the back, and his prison number stamped on the front: 214782. Before he left the room he was handed a large stack of cloth; he was given a blanket, a jacket, a tooth brush, and a roll of toilet paper. No one spoke to him, and when they'd finished the guards grouped around him once more and lead him from the room.<p>

Now began the long walk to his cell.

Dean was expecting the typical movie scene, with inmates cat calling and throwing shit, sometimes literally, at him.

Instead the walk was almost silent.

Inmates watched him pass, leaning on the walls or bars of their cells, tracking him as he proceeded further down the hallway.

Dean watched them with almost the same intensity they watched him. He'd already found one demon today, and he was on the look out for more. The guards misinterpreted his interest, and as they stopped outside his new cell one of them clapped a hand on his back. "It's okay kid. You're very pretty. I'm sure you'll make all _kinds_ of new friends." He used his hand to shove Dean forward into the cell, and then the door shut behind him, locking soundly into place.

The cell was small and dark. It contained a sink, a toilet and a bunk bed. The top cast a deep shadow over the bottom bunk, obscuring his view of his new roommate. All he could see were a set of long legs hanging over the side.

"Hi" Dean tried. He extended a hand towards the shadow. Behind him a guard snickered, and he felt more than heard them walk away. He figured they thought this was part of his punishment, and they would conveniently not be around to help him when the fight broke out. Fuck them. He didn't need their help. "I'm –"

"I know who you are." The man moved into the light.

Dean blinked.

The guy was huge. Not in the sense that movie stars were. He wasn't a mountain of flesh and muscle. He was broad across the chest, and even though he was sitting it was clear he was at least a head taller than Dean was. Dean wasn't sure if he'd win in a fight, but he'd sure as hell try. The guy didn't move to stand though; just watch him. "You're Dean Winchester. They guy everyone's been talking about. Satan's Son, right?"

Dean cringed. "I hate that fucking name. I mean, how cheesy can you be?"

The guy laughed. Dean grinned. He liked the guy already.

Dean moved forward and dumped his crap on the top bunk; he sat down next to his new roomie. He stuck out his hand again. "Dean."

The guy smiled and shook his head, but he took Dean's hand, so he counted it as a win. "Sam."

"So what are you in for, Sam?"

"You mean what did I _do_, or what am I in for?"

Dean laughed. "Is there a difference?"

Sam's eyes darkened. "Yes."

The usual carefree smile slid from Dean's face, and his true expression, one of dark intensity shown through. "Tell me the truth, and I'll tell you mine."

Sam frowned distrustfully.

"What?"

"You never know who might sell you out in here."

Dean laughed. "You've heard about me. Satan's Son and all that, right? You know what I'm in here for. You know I'll probably die here."

A slight smile appeared on Sam's face. "Probably?"

Dean smirked. "Probably. What could I possibly sell you out for? If anything I should be worried _you'll_ sell me out."

Dean wasn't sure if that would work, but after a moment Sam seemed to come to a decision. He looked around carefully and leaned in. "I'm in here because my girlfriend, ex girlfriend now I suppose, set me up. She got me good and drunk. Good and _high_ really, and then told the cops where I was."

"Bitch. What was her name?"

"Ruby."

"So what'd they charge you with?"

"A robbery gone wrong. I held up some pissant diner in the middle of no where, and someone tried to be a hero. I, _we_ really, ended up killing everybody in there."

"How many?"

"Six."

"So what's the story behind that?"

"What do you mean?"

"The _story_. There has to be a story behind something like that. How you two met, what else you got up to, what you are _really _guilty of, all that."

Sam laughed. "And why the fuck should I tell you?"

Dean grinned. "Who else you gonna tell?"

"God?"

Dean laughed. "Not where you and I are going, friend."

Nothing in Sam's face changed, but it seemed his expression seemed to hardened; his smile became razor sharp. "Thought you were a righteous man, Dean."

Dean shook his head and stood up, climbing into his bunk. "I don't believe in God. Not after the things I've seen."

"That doesn't mean He doesn't believe in you."

"You're right." Dean conceded. "Maybe God exists. But if He does, He's an asshole."

Somewhere below him Sam laughed. "I'd ask what you're in here for, but I think I already know."

"Light's out." A voice intoned beyond the bar's of Dean's new home. Within seconds the lights extinguished and they were plunged into darkness. Dean crossed his arms behind his head and listened to the sounds of the prison at night. "You know the bare bones, most of them anyway, but you don't know the story."

There was a pause. "Tell me yours and I'll tell you mine." Sam said it so softly Dean almost didn't catch it.

"It's a long story."

"We've got a long time."

Dean smiled into the darkness. "We'll see."

Somewhere someone was crying. He continued for a few minutes before someone else shouted for him to shut the fuck up. Dean closed his eyes. Yes, he had a home now. And he even had a friend. All in all, not a bad birthday.

* * *

><p>So…. I know I've been writing a lot of police drama, court cases… well, here's a look at what would happen in, let's say, jail. Thoughts? Opinions? Words of undying love? Let me know! Review!<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

So… I don't personally follow Wincest… but I respect your right to read it and all that. We're all slash fans after all! Point being, in this, well, there's a moment when I could see it as Wincest. And trust me, you'll see it too. So why don't they get together? Cause I ship Dean/Cas (or Cas/Crowley *cough cough*). My fingers just wrote this almost Dean/Sam without my consent, and I didn't have the heart to change it on them.

I'm very sorry this took so long, I was trying to be as realistic as possible, and that sort of fell through. So once again, this universe exists completely in my mind; it isn't real. Please don't complain that it isn't real.

To Liliaeth (and anyone else who might be interested), I actually did know that the boys never went to Folsom! It was irksome, as I didn't have a great… reference _in_ the series to use. I actually used http : / en . wikipedia . org / wiki / Folsom _ State _ Prison, http : / www . myfolsom . com / visitor – guide / folsom – prison /, http : / www . murdershewrites . com / 2010 / 05 / 06 / inside – folsom – prison – the – toughest – beat – in – the – state /. Take out the spaces to check them out. I didn't include that reference material in the first chapter… cause I wasn't actually sure if anyone would be interested in reading this at all. But yes, I know Folsom Prison Blues is a song reference not a place reference.

In addition to the above this chapter also used http : / www . mcdorman . org / page 15 . html as a reference. The problem here is this appears to apply to minimum security and we're going beyond that tonight, folks!

Artistic license is my alibi, please read this for the simple pleasure of reading, not for… instructions regarding what things really are.

* * *

><p>The next day Dean awoke to sunlight streaming in from his window.<p>

It was early in the morning undoubtedly. He wasn't normally an early riser, hell, sometimes his dad had to throw water on him to wake him up, but he was in a new environment, so naturally his defenses were raised.

Around him the prison slept on.

As he did everyday since he'd turned eight and was officially old enough to help his dad on hunts, Dean took stock of the room.

The door to the cell was clear; closed, but clear. He could hear Sam's steady breathing, so he was still alive, and unless he was ridiculously good under pressure, he wasn't being held at gun point. Everything seemed to be in order; everyone seemed to be alive. Slowly he uncurled his fist from beneath his pillow, releasing the knife that normally would have been there. He was safe. Or as safe as he could be given the circumstances.

Dean was used to waiting, so he lay, silent and alert, for the prison to wake up.

Sam was the first thing he heard. The guy didn't make any obvious noises, but his breathing changed. The bed creaked as he stretched, and then he was standing, pulling on his clothes. He paused and looked at Dean.

Dean quickly took stock of himself. He was used to deceiving people, this would be no different. He blinked his eyes slowly and sat up, making sure to fake a large yawn. "You guys get up early around here." He mumbled.

Sam laughed. "Like you haven't been awake all morning."

Dean's eyes narrowed. He was certain Sam had been asleep. How could Sam know… unless he was one of them?

Sam wasn't paying him any attention. He moved to the small metal toilet and relieved himself. "Don't look at me like that." His tone was playful. Nothing in his posture spoke violence or menace. "It's like that for everyone here. For the first month, hell, sometimes the first year, you're waking up the second the sun hits the sky, you're looking over your shoulder every time you leave the cell, you're thinking of every possible thing that could go wrong. Well. The folks who really fought for it anyway; their freedom I mean." He washed his hands and gave Dean his full attention. "Your body is in here, but your mind is still trying not to get caught. It'll wear off eventually."

Dean slid off the bed and pulled on a new set of clothes. It'd only been half a day, and already was really starting to hate orange. "I don't think I'll ever break the habit." Dean said.

He froze. Had he said that out loud? He looked at Sam distrustfully. As a rule he never spoke to anyone about anything. Not his life, not his _feelings_, nothing. His dad taught him early that you could never trust anyone. Only family. And he had only one person in that category anymore, even if he had no idea where that person was.

Sam watched him critically. It was as though the giant bastard had heard every thought that had just passed through his head. "Yeah, the news said something about that."

Dean felt himself ready to attack. He didn't want to talk about this, and if Sam wanted to push it, it was his funeral.

Sam's face softened, like some... puppy… thing, and in response, he felt himself relax. His mind shouted in disbelief that he could be so easily won over, but before he could make a big deal out of it there was a sharp ring, and the gate slid back.

Around them prisoners exited; they all were heading in the same direction. All things considered, it was probably the mess hall. They joined the end of a line, more people quickly forming up behind them.

Dean was worried about the other prisoners harassing him, like something out of so many prison movies. He kept an eye out on his surrounding, waiting for someone to come at him from the sides, his front his… but Sam stood silent at his back, stooping in such away Dean almost felt surrounded by him. It wasn't a bad feeling, just an interesting one; as though Sam was blocking him from the prison. Protecting him or something.

It was laughable, but… nice of him.

Dean felt his anger, and some of his tension, drain away.

He turned and looked at Sam, and suddenly it was as though the rest of the prison didn't exist, it was only the two of them. It wasn't a _bad_ feeling, but it was unusual; he really hadn't let anyone this close to him since his dad, and maybe he felt like... "Fucking chick flick…" Dean muttered.

"What was that?" Sam said, not even bothering to hide his smile.

"Bitch." Dean grumbled, shoving Sam half heatedly.

"Jerk." Sam teased.

Dean smirked. "Just so you know you're not my type."

"Why not? Because I'm stunningly attractive? Gorgeous?" He lowered his voice suggestively. _"Irresistable_?"

Dean couldn't help the laugh that escaped his lips. "Modest?"

Sam grinned. "What can I say? I've got the full package."

Dean smiled, and the moment passed; the world expanded.

They were at the front of the line. The kitchen was clearly designed to work in the smallest space possible. Everyone worked in close quarters, the men moving deftly to avoid hitting one another as the moved back in forth, some in the process of making things, others in the process of cleaning them, a select few actually dishing out the food. Dean hadn't seen enough of the prison population to determine if the workers were inmates or not, but he had a pretty good idea that a place such as this might chose to go for incredibly cheap labor over a paid work force.

Sam nudged him and Dean's eyes turned away, falling instead upon a tall, grey stack of trays that were made of a flimsy metal and divided into four segments. The line was moving significantly faster now, each inmate stopping in front of a specific spot along a glass shield that separated the kitchen workers from the inmates. The inmates would hold up their tray, and the white clad worker would drop a pile of… something. Dean couldn't quite identify it, but it had to be something edible.

When it was Dean's turn, he held up his tray and grinned when food landed on his try. He took a few steps away from the line and gave the yellowish goo an interested look. "So what is this supposed to be?"

Sam turned away from the shield with his own tray. "Rice I think."

Dean nodded thoughtfully. "I can see that."

Sam laughed. "In what universe?"

"Well, it's yellow."

Sam looked at his tray doubtfully. "Rice is white or brown."

"You just need to have a little more imagination." Dean looked up at the rest of the dining hall. It was filled with long metal benches that were already full of inmates crowding into cliques and talking loudly. "So who's the guy I have to fight?"

"Fight?" Sam pushed Dean's shoulder to get him moving and lead him down an aisle towards the back. "Who says you have to fight anyone?"

"Its prison dogma." Dean answered. "Every movie agrees; I have to fight the biggest asshole in here to prove that I'm not someone to be fucked with."

"You're not fighting anyone, Dean. Life is not a movie."

"That would be cool though, wouldn't it? You'd have your own soundtrack, you'd know you'd always end up with the girl…"

"Dean, we're the bad guys. We'd always get our asses kicked and wind up right back here."

"True." Dean said, "But you have to think outside the script. What happens to the bad guy when he gets to prison? His life doesn't end there; the camera just starts following the good guy again. Think of it, we're living behind the scenes! It's exciting!"

Sam shook his head and stopped walking. He set his tray down and motioned for Dean to do the same. "Dean, these are the guys."

"The guys?" One of them said gruffly. "Who do you think you're talkin' to, boy?"

"That's Rufus Turner. He's not half as mean as he acts."

Rufus leveled a finger at him. "I know where you sleep."

"The old man next to him is Bobby Singer."

"Old? You better watch your mouth, ya idjit."

Sam set his hand on Dean's back. "This is –"

"Dean Winchester." Rufus said, casting Dean an assessing look. "Heard you butchered your mama, kid. After you had your fun with her you and your dad tossed her body in a nursery and set the place on fire."

Dean leaned forward. "Yeah, makes sense, considering I was four at the time."

Rufus grinned. "You've got quite the reputation."

Dean bared his teeth as well. "I hope to live up to it."

A tense silence settled. Dean squared his shoulders; his smile turned feral and he readied for the fight, excitement building in his chest.

He was jerked out of it by a hand fisted in his collar. In a moment he hand trapped and the arm attached to it on the verge of breaking.

Then he saw Sam.

He dropped the hold and moved away quickly, the apology formed on his lips, but he couldn't seem to say it; he hadn't had to say it in years, his father thought it showed weakness. Around them Dean could swear the prison stopped and watched. Their eyes scratched against his skin.

Bobby clapped his hands and the moment broke. "Now that the pissing contest has concluded I suppose we can move on to more pressing matters, such as not killing each other before the guards have had their fair shot."

Rufus glared at Bobby and dug a spoon into his yellowish mush.

"Is there a problem over here?"

The demon walked up behind Rufus and Bobby, his eyes on Dean, mocking him, daring him to try something. Dean itched to put his fist through his mocking face. Sam smiled. It was something disarming, nice even. "Of course not, Captain! Simply a friendly exchange of ideas!"

"Sure." Captain Exley said. "Friendly. Well Mr. Winchester, the Warden would like to have a word. Get up."

Dean stood up, two guards quickly forming up behind him, one cuffing his wrists. "Lead the way."

* * *

><p>The demon and his lackeys led him through the prison. Dean kept a keen eye, paying attention to every twist and turn, every guard and every check point. He expected Exley to mock him, bait him, something, but the demon remained silent, hardly glancing at him as they wound their way through corridors.<p>

They stopped outside of a glass door. Exley placed a hand on Dean's shoulder and pushed him back a step. It wasn't hard or intended to make him stumble; that almost insulted Dean more, this façade of harmlessness. The demon took his wrists and removed his handcuffs. "We'll be watchin' you, Dean. You make one move that can be perceived as aggressive in any possible way, and I will happily give you a great reason to get to know the prisons doctor a _lot_ better. Please, give me a reason."

Exley patted his cheek mockingly and opened the door.

There was a small waiting room, but Exley walked straight through it, opening the second door and ushering him through.

There was a chair in front of the desk, but Dean didn't move to sit, instead he moved in front of the desk. The man behind the desk ignored him, and Dean took the opportunity to glean all the information he could. He was African American and had a well trimmed goatee; the gold nameplate on his desk read: Victor Henricksen.

When Henricksen looked up at Dean, his eyes held nothing but contempt. "Ah, the famous Dean Winchester."

* * *

><p>Right, sorry that took so long… a series of problems arose with this chapter, and then school cropped up and… yeah. So, I figured faster was better than longer, so I could keep going but then you'd be ya know, waiting. Next chapter will be up significantly faster. Hope this tides you till then.<p>

Reviews are always lovely.


	3. Chapter 3

Massive props to Fearoh! The only one (at least who said) who caught the X Men reference!

* * *

><p>Dean was led out to the yard. Before he was allowed outside he was shoved through a set of metal detectors and patted down by a burly man who looked as though he could crush a man with one fist.<p>

When the officers were satisfied he was allowed out in the light.

* * *

><p><em>Henrickson flipped through a thick manila folder; he settled on one page in particular, holding it up for a closer inspection. <em>

_He cast Dean a bored look, turning the sheet over. _

_It was a picture of himself set against a series of lines proclaiming his height as he gave the camera his best Blue Steel look. He was getting pretty good at it. Dean grinned._

* * *

><p>The yard was dominated by a barren field, filled with dead grass; the color was extenuated by the obnoxious orange the prisoners wore.<p>

Bordering the field were two sets of bleachers standing opposite one another, each filled with prisoners talking to one another. Closer to the prison the land was paved, weights were set up in one corner and a series of metal tables were set in the other covered with men playing cards.

A large fence enclosed everything. Barbed wire topped it, and at every corner there was a guard tower, with a barely visible man holding a large gun that occasionally caught the light.

In the distance Dean could make out other wings of the prison and blue spots of minimum security prisoners playing in their own part of the world. They didn't have a fence around the minimum security guys. Something about an "Honor Code." That made Dean laugh. What prisoner was honorable?

* * *

><p><em>Henrickson turned a few more pages and selected another. <em>

"_My name is Dean Winchester." He read. "I'm an Aquarius. I enjoy sunsets. Long walks on the beach. And frisky women." _

_Henrickson cast him a bored look over the top of the page. "Funny."_

* * *

><p>It was strange.<p>

The prison wasn't what he was expecting, it wasn't some dank pit filled with murderous scum. Well, it _was_, but they didn't act like it.

It was more… like a self contained system; people went about their days fully aware that they'd have to wake up again the next day and interact with the same people. There were no overt shows of aggression or dominance, no fights over games. Some people got pissed off when they lost, but they didn't turn over the table at the end. The large group of people playing cards seemed to be, if not friends, than certainly friendly acquaintances. Certainly not members of some gang.

Just as he completed the thought a fight broke out. Some lanky guy with hair that, even at a distance, looked disgustingly greasy lunged at a man with slicked back hair who looked vaguely like a tax accountant. Dean scowled at the greasy man. If he got sent to the one prison facility in the United States without a shower room he was going to kill someone.

He expected the tax accountant to get his eye blackened, but to his shock the man easily avoided the attack, moving with a fluid grace Dean (and a few others, he noted) couldn't help but admire.

The fight lasted all of five seconds, then the guards descended.

* * *

><p><em>Henrickson set the file down and smiled at Dean. "You don't fool me. You act like some kind of six year old, but you're a cold hearted killer, through and through. Do you know what a prison is designed to do?"<em>

"_Provide a safe place for our kids to aspire to attend?"_

_Henrickson chuckled. "See what I mean? Funny. No, prison is supposed to rehabilitate people so they can go back out into society, but you... you will never get better. I know you're kind, Dean. You'll never repent. You'll never feel remorse for what you've done, or who you've killed."_

_Dean frowned. "Who says I killed anybody?" _

_Henrickson smiled. "See, that's what I'm talking about."_

"_Yeah," Dean said, "cause this place is just chock full of people admitting their guilt." _

"_Not verbally, no." Henrickson said. "But they've acknowledged, even if it's only with inside themselves, or with God, that they know what they've done. You'll never get that. You'll always think you were justified, that those people deserved to die. You're a monster. Do you know what we do with monsters?"_

* * *

><p>"Dean!"<p>

It was Sam.

He and his friends were sitting on the bleachers closest to him. He walked over to the structure and began climbing.

On the far side of the bleachers sat a large group. They were watching the other prisoners with great intensity; most were smirking, and many talked amongst themselves, gesturing to various people and laughing. Dean was skilled enough at reading people to catch the hatred in their eyes, the malice they cast about themselves. One of the men caught him watching, and almost at once the whole group was focused on him.

The man clearly hadn't shaved in a few days, but the look suited him. He had a small smile on his face as he brought a cigarette to his lips, lighting it with an old pack of matches. Dean stopped, his attention arrested by the sight of the man's left arm. The man seemed to notice his attention, and held his arm still for inspection.

* * *

><p>"<em>I followed your case with some interest, you know." Henrickson said. "I knew there was two places you could go, here or San Quentin. Imagine my surprise when you dodged the death penalty and ended up here. I was mad as hell, but now you've presented me with a great opportunity." Henrickson smiled with false kindness. "Most civil rights activists will argue that solitary confinement is inhuman, it deprives you of contact with the world, leaves you all alone. Only your conscience to speak to you. For a normal person that can be unbearable. But for you? With all the evil shit you've done? I bet you'll kill yourself. And really, you'd be doing the world a favor. Now." Henrickson stood up, and walked around the desk, perching on the other side. "I'm faced with a problem. You see, the outside has its eyes on you, and me? I'm not giving them any ammo they might use to get you out of here. No, Dean, you're going to <em>earn _solitary. And you know what they say." Henrickson grinned. "Earning it makes it taste that much better. Please__, Dean. Give me a reason to throw your ass in there. Anything to say?" _

_Dean smiled. "Pleasure meeting you." _

_Henrickson smirked. "I'm sure." He pressed the intercom on his desk. "Send Exley in." _

_Exley entered noiselessly and grabbed Dean's arm, steering him out. _

"_Good talk." Dean called over his shoulder. Exley shoved him forward._

* * *

><p>Black ink swirled down from his orange shirt sleeve, tracing out intricate patterns as it made its way to his wrist. The symbols were abstract, and stood out in stark contrast to his pale skin. The upper portion of his arm contained the majority of the ink, and Dean felt he could just make out the feathers of a wing tracing their way up and out of sight. Below, set amongst the seemingly random curves and interlinking designs was one word: Lucifer.<p>

Dean looked up and found the man smirking. He blew out a cloud of smoke and nodded to the bench across the field, then ignored him. Gradually his group looked away from him as well.

Dean didn't take his bait, and continued up the benches until he reached Sam's group. "I see you've met Lucifer." Rufus grinned.

"That can't seriously be his name." Dean said, straddling a bench.

"I've been here for twenty five years, son." Bobby said. "I don't know anyone who could tell you his real name. Even the guards call him that."

Dean nodded to himself. What did a guy have to do to earn that kind of rep? Kill a few dozen men? No, that wouldn't make sense; there had to be more. Lucifer was known for more than just killing. He fell from grace after what? A split with God, right? Interesting.

Now that Lucifer and his friends were ignoring him, Dean chanced a look across the field.

More pieces started to fall into place.

Sitting across the field was another group, slightly smaller than Lucifer's crowd and yet somehow more intense, which in itself was impressive. What drew Dean's attention was the black markings on the left arms of every man. The ink was so dense that from where he was sitting, it looked as though they wore black long sleeve shirts underneath their orange uniforms.

Dean glanced back at Lucifer's crowd. Aside from the... fallen angel, none of the others had such extensive tattoos.

"So what's with the markings?"

Rufus smirked. "Admirin' the angels?"

"Seriously? Angels?"

"Yeah," Bobby said, "every prison has its gangs and its gang violence. For whatever reason we got the angels and demons. It's easy to become a demon... you just let those fuckers work you over for a few months, and once you break they've got you. On the other hand, it's really hard to become an angel. God has to choose you."

"God?"

"That's what he calls himself. Henrickson threw him in solitary years ago in the hopes of curvin' his influence. Never stuck. The archangels seem to know what he wants and the take care of it."

Dean nodded vaguely to signal he'd heard, but at that moment he was lost within his own head. Angels and demons... it seemed ironic that he'd ended up in a prison with such a high supernatural influence. Was it intentional? Or was it coincidental?

There was no such thing as coincidences, he recalled his father saying.

Dean straightened up where he sat. If they were going to attack him on his own turf, he'd be ready for them. His father raised him as a soldier and it was time to put what he'd learned into practice. The others didn't seem to notice his internal thoughts. "Guys..." Dean asked slowly, trying to keep attention off his words. "If a man needed something, who'd he have to see?"

"Do you mean _need _something," Sam wagged his eyebrows, "or do you just need something?"

Dean was bewildered.

"He means sex, son." Bobby muttered.

"Ah, no then."

"Alright, I think I can help. Come on."

Sam left Rufus and Bobby to finish their card game and took Dean over to a large group of people meandering on the grass. Dean garnered a lot of looks. He met each glance, projecting an air of dominance – don't-fuck-with-me shown out through his eyes. Dean bumped into Sam when he stopped. "Dean," Sam said, "say hello to Gabriel."

Gabriel, as his name suggested, was an angel - an archangel, Dean supposed. Black ink traced up and down his arm in a similar fashion as Lucifer's, though the twisting name was far more elaborate. Gabriel scowled at his attention. "What do you want, shorty?"

"I hear you're the guy to see if you need something."

Gabriel crossed his arms. "Yeah. What's it to you?"

"I need something."

Gabriel laughed without humor. "I gathered. What is it you need?"

Dean casually looked around, checking that no one was within earshot. "I need salt. A lot of it."

This time the smile met Gabriel's eyes. "I know the food sucks, but even that won't make it better."

"Is it really your job to ask what it's for?"

Gabriel's face instantly became serious. "Alright, I hear ya."

"How much?"

"For as much salt as I can get my hands on? … forty."

Sam whistled. "That's pretty steep, Gabe."

"Come on." Gabriel said defensively. "If I put hands on some bags and Dean doesn't come up with the scratch?... I mean, what am I supposed to do with the merchandise? Who else here will _want_ salt?"

Dean's smile sharpened. "And what do I do if I pay up and you don't come through?"

Gabriel laughed. "Don't you worry about me, child. I'll lay hands on it. Tell you what, this time you'll pay up front, and hereafter you'll pay on delivery, how about that?"

Dean considered it and conceded. "Excuse me." He turned and identified an aluminum table where a group of men were playing poker. Sam hurried to catch up. "Let me borrow the buy in, would you, Sammy?"

Sam fumbled to a pocket and withdrew five cigarettes. "You'll pay me back right?"

Dean grinned and sat down.

The men sitting around the table watched Dean with a shark like intensity, eager for new blood. Dean, though his intense record proceeded him, appeared innocent to them; each was eager to claim the man – still a boy really – for their own. Dean encouraged the notion, and within a few games had them all ensnared. Hustling was always something that came easily to him.

Dean played carefully, winning enough to make a profit, but losing enough to encourage challengers. At the end of an hour Dean stood up, gathering up his winnings. He'd made almost sixty. He counted out ten and passed them over to Sam. "Interest." He said to the man's questioning glance. Then he walked back over to Gabriel.

The archangel couldn't help but laugh as he extended a hand for his payment. Dean paused. "For forty I expect a _lot_ of salt."

"Naturally, naturally." Gabriel replied. "I always aim to please."

Dean nodded and walked away. Now that he had enough salt on the way he needed to make the seals. What he really needed was a knife, and that was too important to leave to the care of anyone else.

* * *

><p>...Review?<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

Guess who we meet in this chapter? I'll give you a hint... he has really pretty eyes...

* * *

><p>Dean wasn't sure of all the jobs an inmate could do, but today he was doing laundry.<p>

He and his fellow inmates had been forced into baggy light blue uniforms and led into a large room filled with loud machinery and steam. Minimum security prisoners had an outside source do their laundry but here they weren't taking any chance that a prisoner would stow away and get out somehow. It was left to Dean and a handful of other prisoners to work in the unbearable heat moving clothing from washers to dryers, and from there to fold and place for delivery to other prisoners.

None of the people Dean had met so far worked with him, so he allowed himself to get lost in his thoughts. How could he seal off his cell? He'd try, by God, but Henrickson would certainly put a stop to it. After all, it wouldn't be punishment if he was safe. How could he keep the salt lines from breaking when his cell could be searched at any moment, the salt scattered... how...

Dean's head jerked up. He couldn't have been in his own world long, but somehow his fellow prisoners had left without him noticing. He looked to the guards; they smirked and stepped outside. Dean was alone for a few seconds, and then three men entered the room.

The two flanking looked like nothing but muscle, and from the way they walked it was clear the man in the center was the leader. He was tall and rather lanky, though he carried himself in such a way that Dean was sure the body had a strength to it. Dark hair covered his head lightly, dropping down his face to connect to a well groomed beard that made his face seem pointed. It was clearly designed to make the man look as terrifying as possible.

Dean had seen worse.

The man seemed surprised that Dean wasn't cowed, and moved in closer, looking to intimidate. Dean stood his ground as he was boxed in. The man wore a crooked smile. "Hello, Dean. I'm Rostislav, but my friends call me Alistar. Lucifer says _hi_." From his pocket he drew a crude knife.

Dean attacked before Alistar could, but the two men on either side of him caught his arms and easily lifted him, slamming him against the table he'd been working on. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Winchester." Alistar continued. "Consider this part of your initiation."

Then Dean entered Hell.

Alistar was a genius with a knife, bringing it down down again and again, carving deep curves and gashes all along his chest and legs. He struck where it would bring the most pain, but where it wouldn't cause him to bleed out. Well. At least not right away. Beneath him Dean jerked and twisted, trying not to scream, trying to break free, but he found no leeway in the grip of the men holding him in place. Alistar enjoyed every twitched of Dean's body, every demonstration of his agony. He grinned widely as his face became streaked with Dean's blood.

Dean tried to distance himself mentally and thought of his father, of enduring physical training; beatings, water boarding, everything to make sure he was a good enough warrior to fight along side his dad, but this... this was worse than anything he'd undergone. At least then he knew his dad wouldn't kill him, but Alistar? He had no such guarantee. "Oh, no, no, no." The demon whispered, slapping the flat side of his blade against Dean's cheeks. "You have to stay in the moment, Dean-y. No running away."

"Fuck you." Dean ground out.

Alistar laughed and cut a deep gash from his collar to his hip. Dean bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. Alistar smiled and ran his fingers through the mess, then back through his hair, leaving it standing on end. "You look so good in red."

He brought the knife down again. This time Dean screamed.

Dean wasn't sure when he lost consciousness, but when he opened his eyes they were gone. The florescent lights in the ceiling were too bright; his eyes fluttered closed. He tried to sit up and with a groan fell back. Shit. Dean wrapped an arm around his stomach and tried to turn over. He didn't know when or if they were coming back, but he needed to be far away from here just in case. Numerous cuts pulled, and his body protested. He heard a sound echo across the room – a pained whimper – and wondered who'd made it; distantly he thought it might have come from himself.

A hand gripped his shoulder firmly. Dean jerked and brought his fists up. He couldn't force his eyes open to see who was attacking him, but by God he was going to fight as fiercely as he could, and maybe he'd get lucky.

A hand caught his wrist, the pressure kind compared to the treatment he'd just undergone, and a firm push guided him down until he was lying against the table once more. A folded uniform was placed beneath his head. "You shouldn't move." The voice was deep, unfamiliar and yet oddly comforting. Dean couldn't help but obey.

* * *

><p>When he opened his eyes again he was in a sterile white room, lying in a bed with scratchy sheets.<p>

"What?" Dean tried to sit up and suppressed a pained groan. He lifted his arms and saw stark white bandages wrapping around his wrists and extending up his arms, disappearing under the gown he was dressed in. He had to get out of there.

He was preparing to yank the IV out of his arm, when a nurse strode up to his bed, and smacked his hand away. "Don't touch that."

The very presence of the woman was enough for Dean to back away as far as the bed would allow. She smiled to herself and fussed around his bed, straightening the blankets around him and checking the machines that monitored his heart. When she was finished she crossed her arms and stared him down. "So. Dean Winchester. Henrickson warned me about you."

Dean smirked. "That man. You'd think pulling someones pigtails would stop in elementary school." He managed to wink. "I think someone has a crush."

To his surprise the woman laughed. She held out a hand. "Hi, I'm Ellen."

"Dean."

"So, Dean, what happened to you?"

Dean's mouth snapped shut.

Ellen gave him a sympathetic smile and patted his knee, understanding. "I'll check on you later, honey."

Dean immediately put on his most charming smile. "No chance I could leave now?"

"Your innards are barely staying in place as it is. You're staying right here."

Dean watched her walk off with a bemused smile. That woman really was something else. His dad would have loved her.

With nothing else to do, Dean lay back in the bed and thought about the man with the deep voice.

* * *

><p>Ellen forced Dean to stay in his bed for two full days before she was convinced he could move around without dropping some organ – she wouldn't specify which.<p>

While confined to his bed, Dean still managed to make quite a spectacle of himself. All the nurses – Dean was surprised they were largely female – had formed some relationship with him. The one who stuck with him the most was a woman – girl really – named Jo.

Jo was Ellen's daughter, and if Dean was honest she looked about 12. She was taken with him and treated him like an older brother; Dean was more than happy to accept her as a sister. Ellen, for her part, shocked Dean by allowing this relationship to progress despite Dean's record. Shyly he'd brought it up. Ellen winked and patted his cheek. "I like you."

Dean left it at that.

"Alright, boy, sit up. Let's take a look at you!" Ellen called Jo over and the two of them went about checking Dean over before he'd be released.

Dean frowned as they worked, wondering how much he could trust the two.

Ellen unwound his bandages, revealing shiny pink skin and rows of stitches. She waited a few moments and when nothing bled she nodded, satisfied.

"If it were up to me you'd stay another week." Jo muttered under her breath.

"Well you ain't. Get him dressed." Ellen bustled off.

"She doesn't think you should leave either." Jo said softly.

Dean nodded. It made sense that Henrickson was the one kicking him out.

Jo held out his orange jumpsuit and helped him into it.

Well, Dean reasoned, it was now or never. "Are you familiar with a lot of the prisoners here?"

Jo laughed. "Just about everyone."

Dean hesitated, unsure of how to continue. Jo waited patiently; it should have scared Dean how familiar she already was with him. "Before I passed out... there was this guy with a... very deep voice."

Jo pursed her lips, her eyes distant as she thought about all the prisoners she knew. "Did you catch a glimpse?"

Dean frowned. "No."

Jo touched her chin thoughtfully. "I'll think about it."

* * *

><p>"Dude, you're alive!"<p>

Dean laughed and bumped his shoulder against Sam's companionably. "Alive and kicking."

Sam moved to his bed. "Guess what came for you?" He reached under the covers of his bed and withdrew a large bag of salt, tossing it to Dean.

Dean looked it over, a faint smile on his face. It wasn't the kind of salt someone put in their food, it was the kind road workers spread on streets after snow storms. It was perfect. Dean nodded, fingering the worn bag.

Sam jerked a thumb at Dean's bunk"There's more up there."

Dean stepped up on the first rung of the bunks, and saw half a dozen bags stacked by the head of his bed, pressed up against the wall. Dean hopped down.

"Happy?" Sam asked, laying back against his arms, watching Dean.

Dean grinned. "The man certainly came through."

Dean tore a neat hole in the bag and spread a line tracing the open space that constituted a door. The iron bars were going to help keep spirits out, but this would keep out the demons. Dean stood back, satisfied. "That should do it." He glanced at Sam. "Don't break the line."

Sam sat up, eying the line of salt.

"Sam?" Dean moved to the bunk, towering over his cellmate."Don't. Break. The line."

Sam watched Dean carefully. Dean looked... crazy. Intimidating. Gone was the carefree joker he'd met; here, the Dean Winchester the papers had gone on about stood. Sam nodded quickly, and Dean relaxed.

That night Dean slept deeper than he had since his capture, safe behind his line of salt. Sam didn't sleep a wink, his mind running over Dean's hard eyes as he finally realized the ferocity, and possible insanity, of the man sleeping above him.

* * *

><p>Dean was still feeling a bit tender and his stitches itched like mad, but when he was given his new job assignment he went without complaint.<p>

The library. He'd never actually been in one. He was sure his dad had, the man was always bringing books back to their room, but he'd never bothered to bring Dean.

This library was rather small and smelt musty but in a... comfortable way. He'd even tried flipping through a few of the books, but that was less fun. Still, he knew Sam liked books, so he put a few aside for him.

Dean wheeled his cart down a narrow aisle, stopping every now and then to put a book away. After the first hour alphabetical was getting a bit boring. Dean paused and compared two books. One was significantly taller than the other. Dean grinned and wondered what they would do to him if he rearranged all the books by height. With a wide smile he rushed back to the first shelf and emptied it, sorting the books into piles. He started humming Metallica under his breath.

* * *

><p>His shift was almost over when the heavy wooden door opened and footsteps signaled someone entering the room.<p>

Dean straightened up. This was by far his least favorite part of the job. Helping people find books. Why couldn't they do it themselves? It wasn't like the organization was hard to understand.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean stilled. Alistar.

"Dean?"

He could hear the demon slowly moving through the room heading closer. Dean couldn't take his eyes away from the book shelves. His heart raced and he contemplated running. But where could he possibly run to? Alistar hit his aisle, and Dean knew he'd run out of time. "Oh, there you are, Dean."

Dean turned and pasted a fake smile on his face. "You again. And here I thought you'd forgotten me."

Alistar grinned. "Oh, I like you. I think when this is all said and done I'll have to keep you."

Dean suppressed a flinch.

"Well." Alistar pulled a crude knife from the waistband of his uniform. "Let's get started, shall we?"

The two men with Alistar, different from the last time, moved forward, circling around him, probably to pin him again. Dean backed away until a tall book case stood directly behind him; one less angle he'd have to watch.

Before anyone could move the door was kicked in. "Figure it out." Alistar snarled.

The two men shared a look and moved off. Alistar crowed close to Dean. "Just the two of us then."

"Wonderful." Dean grunted. He lashed out, his fist catching Alistar above the eye.

The demon stumbled back a step.

Alistar gave him a disappointed frown, and took advantage of the proximity Dean had just placed himself in to thrust the knife into his side, just below the ribs. He twisted. Dean struggled not to scream.

Alistar withdrew his blade and Dean fell to his knees. His hand scrambled for purchase against the shelves behind him. "Come on, Dean. You're not being any fun."

"Fuck you." Dean grumbled.

"Maybe next time." Alistar looked away from him. "Where have those boys gone off to? Leroy! Malcolm!"

Grunts echoed in the otherwise silent area. Alistar looked back at Dean. "So hard to find good help, isn't it? If those two took any longer I'd have to carve you up without restraint, and where's the fun in that?"

The edges around Dean's eyes were starting to go fuzzy; that had to be why the two men he could see now looked nothing like the men who'd walked off. Then again, Alistar looked confused too. He kicked Dean in the ribs and stalked over to them.

From his spot on the floor Dean couldn't see much; Alistar seemed confident though.

Dean pushed himself up, clamping a hand over his bleeding wound. Everything hurt, all his old wounds and now his new ones. He could feel his stitches pulling, and damp clinging of his uniform let him know blood was slicking his skin. Dean tried to crawl towards the exit; everything would be so much worse in a few minutes if he didn't get out of here. If Alistar won he'd be back in his same spot of hell, if those men won, they'd probably do something worse. He had to get out of there.

Dean made it a few feet before there was a loud crash and someone started to walk towards him. Fuck.

"Still running, mud monkey?"

So the other guys won. Damn it.

"Leave him."

Dean froze. The deep voice. He turned. The first thing he noticed were the black tattoos tracing down their arms. Angel's then. One, Uriel, was a large black man who looked like crushing Dean's head would be no hard feet. The second, Castiel, was shorter, with a shock of dark hair against his pale skin, and bright blue eyes.

For the first time in a long time, Dean _wanted_.

The larger man still looked at him with contempt, but the smaller one knelt beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. The touch was light, but Dean felt himself move with it, exposing his side, even though he is instincts told him it was best to keep it concealed.

"Dean." Castiel said softly, touching his hand. And his hand moved. What the hell? Castiel touched the wound lightly – Dean expected pain, but none came. It was... odd.

Uriel laughed and Dean jerked back. "I think the monkey _loves_ you, Castiel."

It was a trap. He knew it. Dean moved to cover the wound. He was getting out of there _now. _Castiel grabbed his wrist tightly. How the hell could he hold him so tightly? Maybe he really was an angel. "You should see the nurse." Castiel said quietly. "Come with me."

Dean tried to twist out of the angel's grasp. "Leave me alone."

"Oh look, he feels threatened." Uriel laughed.

"You're not helping." Castiel grumbled.

Uriel smirked. "Fine, I'll help." He moved forward and grabbed Dean's shoulders, dragging him roughly to his feet.

Dean yelped and tried to pull away. "Let me go!"

"You're going to the nurse, mud monkey. Deal with it. Now walk." He shoved Dean forward. Castiel caught him before he could fall. "I thought you said the demon worked him over last time. He can hardly handle a little scratch!"

"Fuck off." Dean grumbled. He tugged weakly at the arm Castiel held onto.

"Don't mind him." Castiel said softly. "Uriel can be a bit of a..."

"Bastard? Asshole? Goddamned mother fucker?" Uriel supplied helpfully.

"...tough person to deal with... but he's a good guy."

"Deep, _deep_ down." Uriel added with a throaty laugh. He continued to chuckle as they walked the almost empty halls and when they reached the nurses station he pealed off to watch the door. Castiel nodded once, and escorted Dean inside, his stride unwavering until they reached an empty bed.

When Dean was settled the angel broke away to keep a critical eye on the bustling activity of the room. He took another step and Dean lunged forward, catching Castiel's wrist. "Wait!"

Confusion covered Castiel's face for a moment before he smiled shyly. "I'm not going anywhere, Dean." Dean tightened his grip and tugged at the angel's arm until Castiel was forced to settle beside him on the bed. Dean's grip relaxed and he thought he saw disappointment in Castiel's eyes, but it was gone so fast he couldn't be certain.

"Dean?" He couldn't see Ellen, but he could recognize her voice anywhere. She walked into view and groaned. "Damn it, boy, what did you do?"

"Just making friends." Dean slurred. It was getting harder to keep his eyes open.

"James, did you have anything to do with this?" Ellen glared at him and started peeling Dean's shirt off without waiting for an answer.

"James?" Dean asked, amused. The man did _not_ look like a James.

"No." Castiel murmured, touching Dean's wrist lightly. "James is dead."

"You don't look dead. I've seen plenty of dead people...they're all pale and cold. You're too pretty to be dead." Dean blinked. He hadn't meant to say that. The blood loss must really have been getting to him.

Ellen hid a smile and mumbled so low Dean couldn't hear it. She nudged the angel, and Castiel smiled at her and got to his feet, backing out of the way.

"Wait." Dean said again, his voice faint as the world started to slip away. Castiel gave him his full attention. Dean held out a hand. " 'm Dean Winchester."

The angel took his hand. "Castiel."

"Will I see you again, Cas?"

"Cas? My name is Castiel."

"Didn't answer my question."

The angel smiled indulgently. "Yes, Dean. We will meet again."

* * *

><p>Sorry writing this is taking so long. This semester is brutal.<p> 


End file.
